Page 111 of Entombed In Sin

I open the door and head down the old, wooden steps. My footsteps are heavy, causing the stairs to groan in protest. With each step, a light puff of dust stirs and creates a thin cloud around my boots. The still, stale, musty air down here has a new scent mixed with it. It was faint yesterday, but much more putrid and noticeable tonight.

Stalking across the cracked, cement floor, I close the distance between me and our dinner guest. The rancid smell of infection, blood, and burnt flesh grows more unbearable as I approach Ronald Reed. I won’t acknowledge him as Angel Eyes. The man that held that title died years ago. This guy is a shell of that killer. He’s long held on to the idea of who he once was, forgetting that time and complacency can be man’s undoing.

Without feet and hands, both having been rudimentarily hacked off, he’s no more of a threat now than he was after Thatcher hit him with his car. I’m sure there are bones crackedand internal bleeding. Thatcher and I cauterized the wounds, but we certainly weren’t worried about infections taking over. We just didn’t want him to bleed out.

Not before Knox and Beatrix could give him a proper goodbye.

I can tell Knox has been here. New, fresh blood stains the floor beneath Ronald. I can’t see the recent wound but it’s there, somewhere. Amusement bubbles up in my gut.

Ronald must hear my footsteps, but if he does, there’s no reaction. I don’t care. With his head hanging, body propped up against the wall, and pale complexion—he appears dead. The only reason I know he hasn’t keeled over yet is the shallow, haggard breathing I can hear. The shaky way his chest rises and falls isn’t consistent. I’m not sure how much longer this bastard would live if we let him rot down here, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be long.

I stop in front of him. The sight of puss and blood leaking from poorly cauterized amputated limbs pleases me. I hope he’s uncomfortable. Without any preamble, I reach down and take two fistfuls of his filthy shirt and lift him up off the ground. He groans, the sound weak and raspy. We didn’t bother binding Ronald’s wrists or ankles. It’s hard to run or open a door without hands and feet. It does, however, make it a bit difficult to transport him around.

With a grunt, I heave the man over my shoulder and head back up the stairs. If I thought the steps protested my weight as I descended them, they bow and scream under it now as I carry Ronald up them. On the main floor, I carry the man down the hallway and into the kitchen.

Just like our first official night in this house, Knox has gone all out with setting the table, lighting candles, and making everything appear just right. The smell wafting through the house causes my stomach to rumble.

Knox looks up from the counter as he finishes preparing whatever it is he’s working on. The smile that stretches across his face is all teeth.

“Oh, Ronald, you’re here just in time,” Knox announces. “Sagan, place him at the head of the table. He’s our guest of honor, after all.”

I carry our victim over to the table and kick out the chair. When I dump him into it, he lands on his ass in the middle of the seat. He lifts his head to pin me with a glare. It’s almost laughable how weak it is. He could’ve spared himself the effort. The hatred in his unfocused gaze does nothing for me. Sweat beads upon his pale, gray skin. The red rims of his eyelids are stark against his sickly skin.

“Why am I up here?”

“Prefer the cold and dark?” Knox asks. “I hope so, given that’s where you're headed for all eternity soon enough.”

Ronald’s gaze creeps away from my face to find Knox. I can see the struggle it is for Ronald to find him in the mood lighting Knox has set up for us this evening. When it does land on my Pretty Boy, his mouth presses into a hard line. He sniffs with disdain, and his mustache twitches.

“I’m not scared of death. Or you.”

Knox shrugs. “Good for you. I mean, I don’t really care what the fuck you think or feel. Tonight’s not about you.”

“T-then why am I here?” he demands. “At least you knew your purpose in my home.”

Knox told me about all the things that took place down in Ronald’s basement. He didn’t spare me any of the details. I grab Ronald’s face with my hand and squeeze it hard. He winces in pain, but I don’t relent. He cries out when it becomes too much.

“Leave it, Sagan,” Knox calls absentmindedly. “Can you run and get the others? Dinner’s ready.”

When I let go of Ronald, I half-shove him away. He rocks in his seat. His arms coming out on either side of him, rotating in small rapid circles to keep from falling over. He balances himself but just barely. With a pained wheeze, his head drops back to his chest.

Fucking pathetic.

Rather than give him any more of my attention, I saunter over to my Pretty Boy. When I stop beside him, Knox’s head lifts as he pauses in his task of plating the balsamic roasted carrots. He doesn’t flinch as I reach up and grab him just under his jaw. His pulse jumps as my thumb slides over his artery.

“I’m excited to see what you have in store for us this evening,” I tell him.

Knox can be so creative when he’s angry.

His smile is bright as is the icy glint in his eye. I reach up to use the back of my hand to stroke the bandage covering half his face. My hand moves up and I tuck a short blond hair behind his ear.

“It’s a meal none of us will forget,” Knox mutters. The ice in his gaze melts and the heat that replaces it causes my dick to stir. He’s so fucking pretty. Like an angel on top of a Christmas tree.

But one holding a knife.

Covered in blood.

And glowing red.

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